For a brief moment no one opposed Macro, and he risked a glance to either side. To the left, Legate Quintatus let out a triumphant cry as he split a native’s skull with his finely sharpened sword. Beyond him, Macro saw one of his men thrown backwards off the barricade as a javelin, snatched up from those unleashed on the enemy, was hurled back and caught him squarely in the face, smashing his cheekbone and plunging on into his skull. As his body fell, another legionary climbed up to replace him.
A swift movement drew Macro’s attention back to his front as another warrior made for him. This one wore a Gallic helmet, chain mail and a shield, marking him out as a nobleman. Like all of his caste, he knew his business when it came to fighting. He blocked Macro’s first strike with ease, and countered with a series of blows that drove the Roman back from the barricade. Taking advantage of that, he climbed up and thrust his shield against the centurion’s. Unbalanced, Macro wavered as he struggled to stay on his feet, and for an instant he pushed his shield to the side to stop himself falling, and exposed his body to his opponent.
The nobleman hissed and drew his sword back to make the fatal thrust. Then the point of the legate’s sword clattered into his helmet, jerking his head violently to the side and dazing him. Before he could recover, Macro threw his weight behind his shield and slammed into the man, sending him flying back from the barricade to crash on to the tightly packed mass of enemy warriors desperate to get their chance to fight the hated Romans and take their heads as trophies. There were several bodies slumped before the barricade now, and a handful of legionaries had fallen too. The fight raged on in the darkness, illuminated by the glow of the fire behind the Romans and the pallid gloom of the snow.
The enemy’s progress up the slope towards the top of the crags was just as much of an effort as it had been for the Blood Crows climbing from the other side. At the same time, they had to endure the steady barrage of fire arrows and rocks hurled down from above, and Cato noted with satisfaction the number of bodies littering the snow as the natives struggled to close on their tormentors. They reached the first of the obstacles set up in their path and had to pause and uproot the stakes and move aside the boulders, all the time being pelted with arrows and rocks. Several more were struck down before the way was clear, and then they threw themselves up the final stretch of slope to the top of the crags.
‘Over here! On me!’ Cato yelled, as he rushed towards the larger boulders perched on the edge of the rocks overlooking the approach to the crags. He braced his feet and strained to shift the first of the boulders. It began to move, and then one of his men added his strength and it moved easily and rolled over. One more shove was enough to send it tumbling down the slope towards the enemy, knocking the first man aside before crashing into the next and sending him flailing down the slope, then hitting more of the natives and causing others to leap aside as it continued on its way. Cato and his men sent more boulders tumbling down, breaking up the attack, and then readied their shields and spears and stood ready to receive those of the enemy who reached the top of the crags. The stiff climb had exhausted the tribesmen, and they struck out desperately at the Thracians lined up and waiting for them. A score of them fell very quickly to the Blood Crows’ spears, and their bodies added to the obstacles impeding their comrades trying to follow up.
Cato stood to one side, watching. He noted that the enemy had stopped lower down the slope and fallen silent as their courage and determination to defeat the Romans wavered. Now was the time to strike. Drawing his sword, he took up his shield and forced himself into the front rank of his men as he drew a deep breath to issue the order. ‘Blood Crows, with me! Advance!’
He stepped down the slope, shield up and sword pointed forward, his men in line with him. They had the advantage of the high ground and the reach of their spears, as well as being fresher than the enemy, and they drove them back with ease. Some fell to spear thrusts; others tumbled back against their comrades and were caught there, unable to avoid the bloodied points of the spears before they were stabbed in turn. The Blood Crows worked their way down the slope, steadily rolling up the enemy attack until at last the resolve of the native warriors broke and they turned to scramble away, desperate to escape the ruthless Thracians. Cato followed them up for a short distance before halting his men and ordering them to return to the top of the crags. At the same time, he saw the first of the enemy who had gone into the gorge falling back, streaming across the snow until they were a safe distance from the legionaries holding the barricade.
‘Round one to us, lads!’ he called to his men, and they raised a cheer. It was picked up by the men on the crags opposite, and a moment later by those down in the gorge, while the enemy engaged in the first attack retreated in fearful silence.
The natives attacked twice more during the night and were repelled each time with heavy casualties. The second attack exhausted the last of the fire arrows and javelins, and the Romans suffered more casualties as they were faced with fresh troops each time. Having failed to break through on the third occasion, the enemy withdrew to await the coming of dawn. Cato took the opportunity to make his way down to the gorge to see how the Fourth Cohort was faring. Macro greeted him by the embers of one of the fires around which the wounded had been placed. The dead lay in a line further off.
‘How’s it going up above?’
‘We’ve held them well enough,’ Cato replied, ‘though I’m down to ten men. If dawn reveals just how thinly the Blood Crows are spread, then our friends won’t hesitate to take us on, and this time we won’t be able to hold them back. In which case they’ll have the high ground and will be able to force your lads out of the gorge. Once they have us in the open, it’ll be every man for himself. How’s the Fourth coping?’
Macro stretched his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. ‘We were doing fine until that last attack, and then the boys took a hammering. I’ve got no more than sixty men still on their feet, and most of them are carrying a wound, apart from being ready to drop. Looks to me like the next time round it’s going to be over.’
Cato made a non-committal noise. ‘And the legate?’
‘Taken a spear wound to the thigh. It’s been dressed but he’ll not be running anywhere soon. Looks like he’s not going to have any choice in seeing through his decision to make a last stand. That said, he’s been a plucky bugger. Saved my neck once, and has downed several of those bastards. Given time, I might have made a decent legionary of him.’
‘Then it’s a shame he’s a legate rather than a legionary. Would have saved us all a lot of trouble.’
‘True enough. But he’s got guts plain enough. More so than most of his class.’
Cato looked round at the casualties lying in the snow. Some were moaning pitiably; others lay in silence, either staring up at the stars or clamping their eyes shut as they dealt with the pain. He saw the cohort’s surgeon, Pausinus, stopping by one man whose jaw had been cut clean through and was hanging by shreds of flesh as his body trembled violently. Pausinus had a scalpel in his hand, and as Cato watched, he made a nick in the injured man’s throat and blood pulsed from the wound. The legionary began to stir, and the surgeon held him down firmly until he was no longer struggling, then rose to his feet and moved on to the next man.
Macro had seen that his friend was watching. ‘I’ve given him orders to put the worst cases out of their misery. He reckons he can do it with the minimum of pain and they’ll go off quickly. Better that than fall into the hands of the Druids. Those who are capable have been given a sword or dagger and I’ve told them to fight from where they lie, or take care of themselves when the enemy gets through the barricade. They know the score.’